


Impostor (in my own skin)

by Dumbothepatronus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, America has more than one wizarding school, Arizona - Freeform, China, Gen, Modern Era, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, POV Third Person, area 51, green curry, jade - Freeform, wizards in america
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dumbothepatronus/pseuds/Dumbothepatronus
Summary: The jade sits cold against her wrist, promising ancient magic that can connect her to her birth-parents; that can help her find where she belongs. That is, if she can unlock their secrets.
Kudos: 2





	Impostor (in my own skin)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Jenny Smith, an adopted Chinese-American, struggles to find a connection with her culture and her birth parents.
> 
> Thank you so much to my team for beta'ing!

Father’s Day was rough enough; Jenny certainly didn’t need this. She glared at her painfully No-Maj second-grade teacher, Miss Rufus, and the clown-smile she flashed around the room. Like dads were the best thing ever.

Jenny wouldn’t know; she’d never met her birth-father, and her adoptive mom had always been single.

Colorful Popsicle sticks clacked against the sides of a painted can. Miss Rufus grabbed one and squinted at the sharpied-on name. “Jenny Smith. Come on up and pick your dad!” 

Jenny glanced from the blackboard to her teacher’s joyful eyes and blinked back tears. For the first time, she wished she attended the school by her house; the school where her mom taught. Embarrassing as being known as the teacher’s kid would have been, at least she wouldn’t have to deal with this nonsense.

Stuck up on the board with magnets were brown-haired dads, dads with shiny bald heads and red beards, and even an African-American dad. But none had her tawny skin, her raven hair. Jenny rolled one of the smooth, ever-cool stones of her bracelet between her fingers. “He’s not up there. And anyway, I don’t have a dad. Just a mom.”

Miss Rufus’ eyes widened, and that stupid smile disappeared. “Oh. Oh, I didn’t think.” She bit her lip and rattled the Popsicle stick can. After a loaded silence, she pulled out a replacement. “Candace Owens, come on up. Pick a Dad from the board, please, and read the instructions on the back.”

Jenny slumped in her seat until her hair made an ebony curtain around her face. She imagined how her mother might have looked; imagined her bracelet against an elegant arm, one that matched her own.

Sometimes she dreamed that it could transport her, that she could turn it into a Portkey or view its past like a memory. If she could just see her birth-mother’s face, her father’s smile—then she’d know. She’d know her past, her heritage; at last, she would belong.

The Arizona sun scorched her skin as she climbed off the school bus; the cactus seemed to mock her, the Joshua trees laughed. “You don’t belong here,” they said. “You weren’t born to live in the desert.” So she ran—ran into the cool refuge of the house, ran through the living room, dying to bury her face into her pillows and sob. But her mom caught her wrist.

“Ah-ah-ah, no disappearing just yet. How was school?” she asked, concern wrinkling her brow. 

Jenny frowned at her curly blonde hair, at her white-as-a-sheet skin. Her freckled hand covered the jade beads on Jenny’s wrist, and Jenny pushed her away.

“Fine. School was fine.”

Her mother frowned. “Come into the kitchen; I’m making green curry. I could use a helper.”

Green curry. The thought made Jenny grin. Her birth-mother hadn’t left her much when she’d left her at the Chinese-American Magical Adoption Bureau—only the jade bracelet and promises of its magic. So when Chinese food was on the menu, Jenny savored it. 

Her mom handed her a wooden spoon. “Here. Stir, and I’ll start the rice.” 

When she ate, she ate with chopsticks and imagined herself in China, away from the prickly Arizona cactus and overwhelming heat. Would she have sat at a table there, eaten green curry from a bowl, exactly as she did now? She could almost taste her legacy, mixed in with the chicken and coconut milk. 

* * *

  
  


Fifth grade was the last year of No-Maj public schooling. Just one more year, and Jenny would no longer feel like a mermaid washed ashore. She finished her breakfast with a glass of cold milk and a fortune cookie from the magical grocery store. Its spine made a satisfying crack as she ripped it in half, and a disembodied voice announced, “You will make a new friend today, if the snipes don’t get her first.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. According to her mom, fortune-telling was a legitimate magical art. Jenny thought it was hogwash. 

And yet, when she entered the classroom, there was a girl, both familiar and unfamiliar; a girl with straight black hair and a bright smile. Jenny’s heart raced as she stuck her hand out into the space between them. “I’m Jenny—Jenny Smith. You must be new.”

The girl reached for the stones on Jenny’s wrist. She hated for people to touch them, but as this girl’s fingers traced their roundness, marveled in their chill, Jenny’s smile grew. Their skin matched; she’d never had a classmate who looked like her.

“Are they jade?” The girl giggled, as if suddenly remembering her manners. “I’m Yu Yang.”

Jenny nodded. “They were my mother’s.”

“They will bring you luck. Sit by me, and we will both have good fortune.”

So she did. She sat by her every day of fifth grade, until mid-November, when she worked up the courage to invite her over for dinner.

“Come eat with me tomorrow—we’re having green curry!” Jenny said, beaming with pride. “Just like in China.”

Yu Yang cocked her head. “Green curry? They don’t eat green curry in China.”

A wave of nausea rippled through Jenny’s stomach. She’d been living a lie. Every time she’d eaten green curry and dreamed of her native land, she’d been wrong. She wrapped her hand around her beads, digging them into her skin until she felt them against her bones.

“Jenny? Jenny, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be mean.”

“No, it’s ok. It’s not your fault.” A tear dripped down her cheek, hot and humiliating. Was everything she knew about Chinese culture wrong? Was she a fake, an impostor in a Chinese body? She’d never known her birth parents. They weren’t around to teach her things, like how green curry isn’t Chinese. And her mom tried, but she was American. What did she know?

“I like green curry, though,” said Yu Yang, hesitation coloring her voice. “I like to play, too.”

Jenny pressed her lips together, not trusting herself to speak. What would Yu Yang think of her white mom, of her very un-Chinese home?

“It’s ok,” Jenny said. “Maybe another time.”

But another time never came.

* * *

  
  


Jenny wiped sweat from her forehead as she hiked the quarter-mile from the permanent, magic-sensitive portkey—an enormous Joshua Tree—to a chain-link metal fence surrounding a series of drab, square buildings. She’d been to Harriet Tripty-Won before, when her mom had taken her to peruse the library for books about the Chinese Zodiac. Still, she had a certain sense of wonder as she trekked through the sand, sending up sprays of tiny pebbles. 

She stuck her wand in the forty-second link, just as her mom had taught her, and tapped the sides in a triangular pattern. The fence shimmered into a mirage, and Jenny stepped through. On the other side, an enormous school campus sprung out of the bland government building the No-Majs called “Area 51.” 

It was more intimidating, now that she stood alone. She stared at the white adobe walls, at the red clay tiles. 

Her jade stones, always cool to the touch no matter how the air boiled, soothed her skin. Now that she was in a proper magical school, she’d learn more about them, more about her culture. What secret magic did they hold? Would it make her belong to someone, to someplace?

A witch stood at the door, ushering in students as they stepped through the fence mirages and shuffled across the courtyard to the heavy wooden front door. A pair of carved jade earrings dangled from her earlobes, and Jenny’s heart leapt. 

“Hello my dear,” said the witch. “Sixth grade?”

Jenny nodded.

“Well, let me see…” The witch’s eyes, brown and deep as her own, jumped down a sheet of acid-green paper. “Ah yes! You’re in my homeroom. Second hallway, past the UFO. You can’t miss it—there’s a neon flashing sign that says, 'Mrs. Zhou’s class.’”

Jenny didn’t even blink at the flying saucer floating between the adobe walls; she was too excited. Her teacher was like her; just like her. Would Mrs. Zhou teach her about jade? Would she teach her Chinese magic, things her mom never dreamed of?

At the very least, Mrs. Zhou didn’t think green curry wasn’t from China. Jenny slipped into a desk at the front of the room and slid her backpack onto the floor next to her. Mrs. Zhou took the school’s space theme seriously—posters of planetary charts hung on the walls, spinning models of Neptune and Saturn floated near the ceiling, and what appeared to be a reading nook crafted from a retired rocket ship stood proudly in the corner. At least there was one familiar thing—a row of magical mailboxes, each one with a different address printed on the side. She located her own and smiled; she’d be able to send messages home instantly, if the need arose.

Weeks passed, and Jenny learned how to levitate cactus spines with a flick-and-swish of her wand. She learned cooling charms to ward off the desert heat. Mrs. Zhou taught an entire unit about the school’s namesake, Harriet Tripty-Won. By the end of September, Jenny could write essays about how the No-Majs had become suspicious, and how Harriet had conjured up flashing lights and flying saucers to confuse them. 

All this, but not a single paragraph in her  _ Charms for Beginners _ text about connecting with one’s absent parents; not a single theory taught about the ancient magic of jade stones. What was the use of turning sand into salt, or making flashing sparks? Who cared about Snallygasters, and whatever magical properties they might have, when a mystery sat cold against her wrist?

One Thursday, she scribbled her mother a note and slipped it into her mailbox: _Staying late at school today. I’ll be in the library._ She shut it into her mailbox, which played a clip of _Purple People Eater,_ glowed fluorescent violet, and completed its transportation spell with a cheerful chime. There. Now her mother wouldn't worry, and she’d have a few good hours to scour Harriet Tripty-Won’s extensive library. 

She flipped through book after book, searching their pages for “China” or “jade”, but came up empty. Her stomach growled; her mom surely had dinner ready, but she couldn’t stop. The answer to everything could be in the next chapter.

“Jenny?”

Mrs. Zhou stood in the space between two bookshelves, those traitorous jade stones wiggling and taunting. “Can I help you find something? The essay on transfiguration theory isn’t due until next week.”

Jenny shook her head. “No, ma’am. Nothing.”

“Then I suggest you head home. The library closes in five minutes.”

Jenny left her books, her hopes and dreams, behind in the neon glow of the library lights. 

That night there was curry for dinner, but it tasted like sand. After her third spoonful, she pushed her bowl away, so hard it would have flown right off the table and crashed on the floor if it weren’t for her mom’s quick reflexes.

“Jenny! What has gotten into you? Pouting at your favorite dinner and throwing my dishes around?”

“It’s not my favorite. I hate curry.”

“Jenny!”

“Well, I do. It’s not even Chinese.”

“Not Chi—wait. I get it now.”

No, she didn’t. Her mom couldn’t understand. Jenny scoffed. “And neither are fortune cookies. They were invented in America, did you know that? Then some wizard stole the design and enchanted them to spit out stupid nonsense.” 

She didn’t wait to see her mother’s reply, to see the disappointment on her face. Her feet carried her to her bed as fast as they could run, and her hands slammed the door behind her. But even through the heat of her anger, the jade stones sat cool against her wrist. She sank into them, tried to meld her magic, weave it with theirs, let them take her away. But no matter how much she tried, the blue walls of her room stayed firmly around her, and the white eyelet lace of her bedspread stayed firmly beneath. 

  
  


* * *

School couldn’t end quickly enough the next day; Jenny was back in the library almost before the dismissal bell rang.

Ink stained her fingers, smeared along the margins of her long page of notes—scribbled facts from a book she’d spied in a dusty corner, hidden behind a stuffed green alien that cooed and waved as she reached around it to grab her treasure. Properties of Jade: A Practical Guide, the title read, in flourishing gold lettering over a worn leather cover. 

It was full of vague advice and very little practical application, despite the title’s claim. Supposedly, jade had to deem you worthy. You had to be wise enough to recognize its influence in your life, to see the good fortune that it brought you. But there wasn’t a word about ancient magic, about hidden secrets. She’d been silly; silly to dream, to fall for her own fantasy.

A shadow fell over her paper; a shadow with dangly earrings and a short bob haircut. Jenny was too upset to look; she stared into her lap and pushed her book across the table.

“Properties of Jade?” Mrs. Zhou asked. “What a wonderful research project. Are you finding what you’re looking for?”

“What I’m looking for doesn’t exist.”

Despite Jenny’s prickliness, Mrs. Zhou squeezed into the chair next to her. She tapped red-painted fingernails on the table, as if trying to collect her thoughts. When she spoke, kindness filled her voice. “I met your mother before the school year started. I understand she’s a teacher herself? At the No-Maj elementary?”

“Yeah. Second grade.” Jenny stared at her notes. What was she missing?

“Your mother requested that you be placed in my homeroom. She loves you. And she sees your struggle, even if you don’t realize.”

“I doubt that. She doesn’t even know that green curry isn’t Chinese.”

Mrs. Zhou laughed. “What makes you think that?”

Jenny paused. She couldn’t remember where the idea had come from, that her mother made green curry to represent her Chinese heritage. “Well, why else would we eat it all the time?”

“Let me ask you a better question. Have you figured out how to access the magic in your bracelet?”

Jenny snapped her hand over the stones; she shook her head. 

“Jade has memory; it remembers all the love, specifically familial love, that it touches. That’s how it brings luck. Love has an energy to it, a magic all its own. The love of your parents, of your grandparents and great-grandparents; it’s all there. Right on your wrist.” Mrs. Zhou held out her wand. “Here. Do you mind?” 

Reluctantly, Jenny uncovered the bracelet. 

“It’s a complicated enchantment, but I’ll be happy to teach you. In a few years, when you have more magical theory under your belt.” Shimmery red steam swirled out of Mrs. Zhou’s wand, forming a cloud over the cold jade beads and twisting until a face appeared. Curly hair, wide round eyes, and a lumpy nose—her mom; then the mist morphed into a Chinese woman—her birth-mother? More faces followed; faces that looked like her. 

“Your grandparents, your great-grandparents… you’re connected to them. Always and forever, jade bracelet or not. Nothing and nobody can ever take that from you. And what’s more—did you notice who appeared first?”

Jenny jumped out of her chair and threw her backpack over her shoulders. “Thank you, Mrs. Zhou. I think… I think I’d better go.”

“You go child; you go and make things right.”   
  


* * *

The front door banged shut behind Jenny as she rushed out of the heat and into the comfort of the house. “Mom? Mom? You in here?”

Her mom stood at the stove, her hair pulled into a messy bun and a ladle in hand. “Come and try this soup. Tell me what you think.”

The pot was full of yellow broth, with pale strings squirming and swirling like tiny fish in a sunlit lake. She sipped from the ladle; warm and savory, it soothed the frantic part of her soul. “It’s delicious. What is it?”

“Egg drop soup. What you said about curry yesterday… honey, I know green curry isn’t Chinese. I make it because we love it.” She set the ladle on the counter. “Look; I haven’t been the perfect mom. I should have done more, taught you about your parents’ culture; about your culture.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jenny threw her arms around her mom. “I love you. You love me. We can make our own culture. It can have curry and jade beads and love—so much love. Plus egg drop soup.”

“Soup it is, then. I’ll get the bowls if you get the spoons.”


End file.
